


Better Left Unsaid

by Peachy_Beatles



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Exploring Sexuality, M/M, Masturbation, Misogyny, Pining, Seemingly unrequited love, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:49:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25960855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peachy_Beatles/pseuds/Peachy_Beatles
Summary: 1965-66.Dubbed the “laziest man in England”, John spends his days holed up in Kenwood, longing for inspiration to emerge from the depths of his hazy mind. Control is something he doesn’t have, something he is desperate to cling onto.But Paul just keeps on getting further ahead, and John isn’t sure if he can catch up.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44





	Better Left Unsaid

“Right, I’m going to head off now” Paul says as he stretches his arms over his head, a tiny sliver of his stomach is exposed as his shirt gets pulled upwards by the movement. John stares shamelessly as Paul lets out a satisfied groan. 

It’s around 7pm, the clouds outside are grey and heavy with the promise of rain. While Ringo and George help themselves to tea and biscuits, John simply soaks in the company of Paul, idly tuning his guitar. 

“Yeah, it’s getting late,” he murmurs. “We’re coming in tomorrow?” 

“Mhmm” Paul hums with a gentle smile and gets up, grabbing his coat, “see you lads tomorrow.”

A tired ache settles into John’s bones, his fingers are sore from strumming strings, from holding back the urge to touch Paul. He puts his guitar in his case and gets ready to head off as well. Once Paul declares that the day is over, it usually is.   
  


———

The first time John did _it_ was out of desperation, half delirious with lack of sleep and the buzzing energies around him. He had seen the transvestites in Hamburg, knew what they did. And he was curious about it, a fascination burrowing itself into his mind: what it would be like to let go and be with a man. But John was also afraid that he would like it a little _too_ much and there would be no going back; the irreversible opening of Pandora’s box.

Hidden away in the cramped room he shared with Paul and George, he was still high on a preludin pill which he popped a few hours before. He knew the crash of exhaustion was coming soon and so he bit onto his bottom lip and went for it.

There was, at first, the prodding strange, cheeks warm - just experimentation, (normal for a boy with a roaring sex drive) a little awkward, uncomfortable feeling.

And then it was Paul, maybe, touching him. A little guilty thought at the back of his head- Paul’s pretty face, his firm touch.

It’s normal to fantasise, to get things going. And it is fine if it isn’t romantic, John told himself. It’s just lust. 

It’s _just_ lust but it begins to become an addiction, because if John can get Paul in his fantasies- in the dark of the night, a muffled _Paul_ spoken into the fabric of his duvet- then he will indulge himself as much as he wants.

When Paul is nice: happily strumming his guitar, his song bird voice chirping into the microphone, then he is the same during the night. John imagines that same singing voice moaning his name. Can see Paul writhing on his sheets. 

When he feels bitter, he will fantasise about cruelly teasing Paul, touching his cock and making tears prick in the corners of his large doe eyes. 

Whatever suits his fancy, he imagines. It’s all he can get, after all. 

  
———

It’s just after lunch and John sits next to Paul, they share a joint back and forth between them. Paul’s lips press to the paper as he inhales in smoke and then passes it to John. John feels a hint of moisture where Paul’s lips once were - something intimate about sharing the joint stirs warmth in the pit of his stomach. “This weekend, should we get together?” John offers, his voice is rough and he coughs to clear his throat. 

“Oh, not this weekend. I’m busy, going to the opera with Jane.” Paul replies, voice smooth. 

“Oh, right.” 

The smoke burns John’s throat as he inhales it down, seeking the haze of being high. He will spend the weekend with Cynthia as usual, will be with her while she mopes around the house with their son. The thought stings.

That night, he shoves his fingers deep into himself, as far as he can go and his arm shakes from the effort. He jabs his fingers a little harder, lost in his fantasy of Paul opening him up. For the first time he _intentionally_ makes it hurt, a sting of pain shooting up his back and he chokes out a sob, “oh- _fuck_.” 

The pain reminds himself that he’s pathetic, he’s a degenerate. He likes the thought of his best friend fucking his arse and that can’t be right. (Even though it _feels_ right.)

He used to think about it a lot, Paul’s mouth stretched around him, Paul underneath him. The thoughts of Paul being easy and ready for him are nice. They are enough to get him aroused- but now, as soon as he starts touching himself, they evolve into something more depraved: roughness, desperation, pain. 

Girls are easy, girls are soft and submissive. Paul would be something different; Paul would be stern and commanding, like he is when he’s playing music. 

Paul might surprise him with his strength (he is a _man_ , afterall) and kiss John like the way he kissed the Hamburg prostitutes- raw, demanding. 

Though maybe John will surprise _him_ instead, will forcefully tug Paul to the bed, and Paul will look up at him with his large brown eyes, plump lips quivering with pleasure as John touches him, tugs his cock, feels it pulsing in his palm. 

For him, for him he would do anything. Any piece of Paul he would treasure. His wrist hurts from the position he’s in but he withstands the pain, stretches himself out further and arches his back. He comes with a choked cry, unable to focus on anything but the force of his orgasm, and the whole time one word echoes through his head: _Paul, Paul, Paul._

  
———

The next morning -or afternoon, John can’t really tell- John wakes up and hears the soft murmur of voices below him; Paul must be downstairs, talking to his wife and playing with Julian. He might as well be the boy’s father at this point.

John decides to lie in bed for an extra minute. A little lazy, a little upset, he has woken up feeling numb. 

———

It doesn’t matter how many nicknames John throws at Paul ( _princess, pretty boy_ ), Paul is a man when he’s fucking a girl in their hotel room on tour, he’s a man when John gets a good look at his flat chest or when he shoots a camera his typical Paul-McCharmly smile. He’s a _man_. 

And homosexuality is illegal. The next time John is in the studio he mocks Brian, calls him a ‘faggot’. He spits the word out with cruelty, but with a sudden feeling of sick horror realises that he’s mocking _himself_.

(He skirts outside gay clubs, plays with the idea of entering, goes home with shame to his son and his wife.)

Paul has become a man about London, spending his days productively, he seems so in control when John is slipping. John just wants to find something soon. He’s tired of staring at the ceiling of his bedroom alone, the dull feeling of insomnia keeping him up. 

Sometimes Paul brings titbits from his travels, (books from a London bookshop he ever-so-wisely invested in, little stories about people he has met) and John soaks it up, all the knowledge and the experiences as if they were his own. He takes Paul and adds him to his music; the Timothy Leary book he found after a trip to London with Paul ends up starting his song ‘Tomorrow Never Knows.’

“It’s about time, McCartney” John utters when Paul walks into the studio late. 

Paul sighs, “right, I was busy.”

“Well it’s rude to keep us waiting”

“Oh, _I_ should know, I wait for _you_ to wake up every Saturday.” 

John’s words catch in his throat, he didn’t _really_ want to start an argument, but Paul’s remark angers and embarrasses him, “had a fight with Jane?” He huffs. 

Paul looks at him ( _if looks could kill)._ “Enough John” he says, reigning in his emotions easily. 

The adrenaline that had started to course through John’s body with the start of their argument slows. _Fine_. He goes back to tuning his guitar. 

  
———

  
Paul tilts his head, he’s humming a tune. They’re alone together and John feels so warm and tender that it scares him.

“What’s that Macca?” He asks, voice low, as if he might break the sacred moment between them by raising it.

“Ah, just a little something. What do you think?”

“Write it out into a song.” 

The answer is simple and Paul gives him a cheeky grin that says: _one step ahead of you, Johnny._

The melody turns out to be ‘Here, There and Everywhere’. The night they finish recording it John sobs into his bedsheets and pretends Paul has decided to be soft with him as he gently pumps his cock. He comes with a cry, streaking his hand with his come.

Out of all Paul’s songs on Revolver, it is ‘Eleanor Rigby’ which becomes the big hit. It reaches #1 in England and John watches as critics trip over themselves praising it; Paul is even awarded a Grammy for his outstanding ‘vocal performance’ on the song.

To celebrate, Paul pulls out a cheeky joint from his jacket and sits in the studio with John to enjoy it.

Smoke wisps around them, its blue tinge visible underneath the artificial light and Paul giggles. It’s cute and endearing but John just wants him to be serious. He clenches his fist, embarrassed and irritated at himself. This cute, _cute_ Paul is the one he imagined last night dominating him. 

“I’m sure your little tune is appreciated by the grandma down the road, Paul.” He spits.

Paul looks at him, a little surprised and hurt. John hates it, he wants to slap himself but instead glares back defensively, ready for Paul to bite back (he doesn’t, of course.) John grits his teeth and looks away. He sucks in a lungful of hot, mind-hazing smoke and wishes his nerves weren’t so frayed, wishes he didn’t care so much.

He’s bored out of his mind and he needs escape, he needs something, _someone._ But who is he kidding, he’ll never find what he’s looking for; will never find Paul in anyone else. No woman, no man. Maybe that’s a good thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this, if you left a comment that would be wonderful <3
> 
> P.S hit me up on tumblr: peachybeatles !


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